I Tried
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: In the early stages of their "friendship", Lestrade finds some photos while searching Sherlock's flat during a drug's bust, prompting Sherlock to explain the story of his best friend (and maybe something more), who he hasn't seen in over 5 years. AU. Rated T for later chapters, will be Johnlock. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

**Alright, so this is something really random that came into my mind, just another Johnlock AU. Right now, Sherlock is about 25, and he's just recently met and started working with Lestrade. Hope you enjoy this kinda random idea, I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it though...**

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Most people didn't believe that Lestrade really cared about Sherlock. They thought he was just using the young man for his intelligence, to increase his own authority. Because how could anyone care for the freak? He was so abrasive, so cold, but Lestrade knew better than to believe that act. He knew how sad Sherlock really was, how much he had struggled with in his life. The world constantly tore him down, but he just put on his mask and pretended that the constant barrage of insults didn't bother him, even if every insult hurled his way slowly chipped a piece out of him. And it was because Lestrade cared about the young man that he was currently riffling through old boxes that had been shoved into the back of the young man's closet. The third drugs bust in three months, he though to himself, running his fingers through his already gray hair. They never found anything, so this time probably wouldn't be much different, and he was really starting to worry that they wouldn't be able to help him until it was too late. He hated seeing the young man, so full of potential, turn to drugs. From what he understood, Sherlock had had a drug problem since high school, and had taken two ultimately unsuccessful trips to rehab before Lestrade had even met him. It wasn't really surprising. If Sherlock's adult life was this bad, this full of bullying, how terrible must his childhood have been? He hated to imagine the genius in such an awful position. Heaving yet another cardboard box full of miscellaneous notebooks and junk out of the way, he finally reached the end of the closet and the final box. The last one was taped heavily, and bore a label in Sherlock's familiar, untidy scrawl. **_DO NOT OPEN. (That means you, Lestrade.) _**Sighing and picking the knife off the floor, which was littered with scraps of cardboard and tape, he carefully opened the box, worried he would finally find the young man's stash.

No drugs, just more notebooks. He removed the top layer of items, finding a few smaller, black moleskin notebooks, some stray notes, and an old jumper. Nothing unusual. His trailed his fingers along the bottom of the box until they bumped against something. Hands groping around in the box, he a bundle, wrapped up in an old, threadbare blue scarf. Shit. He untied the scarf, only to find several stacks of old photos bound by rubber bands. This was what Sherlock didn't want anyone seeing? Flipping over the first photo in the stack, he noticed it was of Sherlock. It was hard to miss the unruly dark hair and the high, pale cheekbones. But the expression on the boy's face, who couldn't be much older than 18, was nothing Lestrade had ever seen before. He was smiling, genuinely smiling into the camera, one arm up in an attempt to hide his face and the other pushing against the camera person. He flipped through several more photos, and saw similar sights. Sherlock laughing, Sherlock smiling, his eyes more alive than Lestrade had ever seen him. There were photos of another boy too, with short, cropped blond hair, tan skin, and dark blue eyes. He'd never Sherlock this happy, and had certainly never seen the person in the photos. When had these photos been taken anyway? Flipping over the back, he noticed the date, nearly eight years ago. Just as he was about to move on to the next stack of photos, Sherlock barged in the room, startling Lestrade into dropping the photos on the floor, scattering them all the way to the door.

"Sorry I was prying mate...I'll um, just be going now..."

"No, it's fine. Stay."

"Oh, well okay," Lestrade said, lowering himself back on the bed awkwardly, "um, who's the bloke in the photos anyway?"

"Long story," Sherlock mumbled, stooping down to collect the photos scattered across the floor.

"I've got plenty of time," Lestrade said, placing a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder and smiling down at him. He really did want to know what had happened to the mystery boy in the photos, and why Sherlock was so alone now, when it was obvious from the photos, that he'd had a true friend once in his life.

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**So in case you didn't get the hint, mystery boy in the photos is John. **

**Anyways, do you think I should continue this or just scrap it? Constructive criticisms please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So I've decided to continue with this, at least for the time being.**

**Hope you all enjoy!**

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Sherlock sank down on the bed next to Lestrade, flipping through the photos with slightly trembling hands. He stopped at a particularly candid shot of the mystery boy, a smile ghosting across his lips, but his eyes remained sad. Not meeting Lestrade's eye, choosing to focus on the stack of photos in his lap, Sherlock began.

"John Watson. He was my best friend, my only one really. You can imagine I wasn't very well liked...We meet in school, when we were both seventeen. He was new, and for some reason, he just...wanted to be my friend. He thought I was brilliant, even though nobody else though so. Everyone hated me except for him. But having him...made everything okay. He helped me deal with the...self-harming, and the drugs the first time around. I was better with him around than I have ever been. His family became like my own, I'd never had a very good one, and I was at their home constantly. Eventually, we went to uni together...but when he graduated, he decided to enlist in the military. I'd know the entire life of our friendship that that's what he wanted to do, but that doesn't mean I was prepared to say goodbye to him, I could never have been. When he left...I promised I would be okay. I promised I wouldn't turn back to drugs or anything else, that I would get help if I even thought about it. I managed for a while, we talked all the time and wrote to each other, it just wasn't the same, not having him there...but eventually, well, you know how I ended up. A pathetic junkie living on the streets. I was so ashamed of not keeping my promise...so I stopped talking to him, and I haven't heard from him in years."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, absolutely dumbfounded. He'd never even heard a mention of an old friend of Sherlock's, had never even imagined that he'd ever had one. Come to think of it, he really didn't know much about the young man next to him. He'd had no idea about the self-harming, or the fact that he'd used drugs in the past, before they'd met.

"Have you ever thought about contacting him again?", Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock nodded slowly, "Yes. There have been several times in the past few years that I've considered it all...going to my brother for help, getting clean again, finding a place to live and a job somewhere. But before I started, I just would jus get this...nagging...thought in the back of my mind. What if he died and I never even knew? Would it even be worth it, getting clean, going through all that, when the only person out there who matters was gone. And what if he hated me for what I did? What if he could never forgive me? Not knowing how he felt, or where he was, was always better than him hating me, so I never did anything."

"Thanks for sharing with me, and please know that I'll always be here for you if you want to try again. I really think you should, if not for him, for yourself. I hate seeing such an incredible mind wasted, and if these drugs busts have to keep going on, I won't be able to give you cases, and I know how much they mean too you and how many people you've saved and given peace. So what do you say?"

Making eye contact with Lestrade for the first time in their conversation, Sherlock stared at Lestrade for a few minutes before letting out a deep breath and nodding. He got up, and crossed the room, shoving the wardrobe out of the way, revealing a hollowed out hole in the wall. He removed a small box, and handed it to Lestrade.

He hesitated slightly before whispering "Just get rid of it..."

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**Please review, and feel free to comment or PM me with any suggestions!**

**Thanks for reading, and I hope to update soon!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hope you all enjoy the new update! I'm enjoying writing this, and I'd just like to say thanks to everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed my little story. Sorry in advance that these chapters are a bit short compared to my others.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor do I own Facebook (duh..).**

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_Time to put your genius computer skills to good use_, Lestrade thought to himself as he balanced his laptop on his knee. And by computer skills, he basically meant typing "John Watson" into a search engine. It had been nearly three weeks since he had talked to Sherlock and convinced him to try getting clean. The young man had invaded his flat and taken up residence on Lestrade's sofa ever since, not trusting himself to make it through the withdrawal period without resorting back to drug use. Despite how insane the detective could be on a good day, and no matter how much Lestrade researched cocaine withdraw, he could never have been prepared for the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes going through withdraw. It only took Sherlock a few days to break, and want to give up. It was too hard, too painful, and not worth his time. But Lestrade would force him, sometimes even resorting to holding him down when he tried to fight. Soon there were times when Sherlock would pace the flat for hours, fingers twitching and eyes following Lestrade every where he went, obviously paranoid about something. He couldn't bear to sit still for even a moment, let alone to sleep, and he would go days without rest or food. His weight dropped startlingly low, to the point where Lestrade could feel the man's ribs and the knobs of his spine easily.

But even worse were the days as of late when Sherlock would lie there on the couch, not moving, not even blinking. Just staring at the ceiling. He wouldn't eat at all, always passing up the food Lestrade handed him. His weight dropped even lower, if that were even possible, and Lestrade had to force food on him on several occasions, threatening to call Mycroft and have him forced into a proper rehab center. Thankfully, he would sleep more when the depressive fits hit him, but he manage a few hours before waking screaming and sobbing, gasping for air. Lestrade would comfort the damaged young man, assuring him that it was only a dream and rubbing comforting circles on his back, letting the man sob into his shoulder. He didn't want to ask, and didn't want to know, what Sherlock was dreaming about, and he knew that the man would be mortified if he had been in his right state of mind. It was during these times that Lestrade worried about Sherlock the most. Only a few days into their agreement, Lestrade had noticed the multitude of scars that peppered Sherlock's arms, shoulders, and ankles. He never seen them before because Sherlock always covered up when out a crime scenes or even in his own flat, and almost always wore his thick, black wool overcoat. He was, naturally, worried out of his mind. He hated leaving Sherlock alone, even if it was only for a few hours. If the depressive fits got much worse, he was afraid the young man would resort to harming himself to feel better, and he was even more worried that Sherlock would try to kill himself to get rid of the pain. He knew from all the research he did that suicide was common at this stage, when the depression warped the person and wrapped it's cold fingers around the person. Lestrade thought that maybe finding John would help get rid of the depression, because he knew that if things got much worse he would have to go to Sherlock's annoying brother for help. He would really hate to send Sherlock to a rehab facility, considering he'd promised not to, but if it became necessary, he would have to.

So there he sat, laptop balanced on his knee, watching Sherlock, who was lying apathetically on the couch, eyes closed and arms flopped across his thin chest. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the arm of his chair, waiting for the search to finish. _Alright, here we go. _The first hit was a Facebook profile, and Lestrade clicked it. It wasn't private, so Lestrade could see it. Just the average page of a young adult. No condolence messages, no "you will be missed", no RIPs or slightly creep photo collages. Defiantly good. Lestrade wasn't sure if what he would have done if the man had been dead, he knew that Sherlock would completely self-destruct if that had been the case. Everything up to this point would have been for nothing, and Sherlock would have certainly run away and drowned himself in drugs, trying to forget his lost friend. Sighing in relief, Lestrade put his detective skills to good use and kept digging. The man in the photos seemed to resemble the teen he had seen in Sherlock's photos, same nose, same hair, same eyes. Apparently John had returned from military service in Afghanistan about a year ago (again, consistent with Sherlock's story), and was currently living in London (though on the opposite side of the city) and was working at a local hospital in the A&E department. Time for the awkward part. Lestrade opened up a private message tab and began writing.

**_So this might sound a bit strange, but I was wondering if you, by any chance, knew a young man named Sherlock Holmes? I've rather recently come into contact with him, and he has expressed some interest in reconnecting with you. As I understand, you two were quite close during school and uni, and I was wondering how you would feel about meeting up. If you are the John Watson I'm looking for, please contact me ASAP._**

_**Thanks for your time,**_

_**DI Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard**_

Reading it over several times, making sure it didn't sound to stupid, Lestrade hit send and closed his laptop, transferring it to the coffee table and rubbing his temples. Now all he could do is wait for a reply, and he really hoped it would come soon.

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**Wow...Sherlock fics make my search history look really weird...**

**Anyways, John will be making an appearance in the next chapter, and I'm super excited to start writing it! Hope to update soon!**

**Any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Please leave a review if you enjoyed my little story!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry in advance that this chapter is so short, but I promise the next one will be much longer and better! But anyways, thanks to everyone who favorites, follows, and especially reviews this story!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, even though I wish I did!**

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The words swam around his vision, whizzing past his eyes. Contact. Reconnecting. Meeting up. _Sherlock Holmes._ A one Dr. John Watson ran his fingers through his close-cropped blonde hair and let out a pent-up, shaky breath. He read the message over several more times, before setting his elbows on the desk and burying his face in his hands. This wasn't happening, this couldn't possibly be happening, he couldn't believe this. He hadn't heard from Sherlock in _years_...ever since his deployment. Nobody knew where he was or what he was doing, but John thought about him almost every day, even after so long. Sometimes John wondered if he would ever seen him again. Would he see his dark-haired, dramatic old friend on the streets one day or in a coffee shop? Would they turn around, staring at each other in disbelief? Even worse, John had imagined Sherlock being patient in his emergency room. He was always afraid that the next ambulance would come rushing in with Sherlock in the back after some insane, reckless accident or, God forbid, an overdose or suicide attempt. He'd know how much Sherlock had struggled before they'd met, how everyone had hated him and how he had turned to drugs and self-injury to numb himself from all the pain. Their friendship had been incredible, and he'd seen Sherlock blossom and change in their years together. In the end, Sherlock had been the only reason John had reconsidered his desire to enlist, it's all he'd wanted to do in his life, even when he was young...but he had always been so worried that after he left, Sherlock would self-destruct without him...

"You know, you really should be checking your Facebook during work hours?" one of the nurses, a good friend of his named Anne, teased, smirking at John.

Her sudden appearance made John jump, and he let out another shaky breath before giving her a strained smile (ignoring her now furrowed brow) and looking back at the computer screen, still in disbelief.

"You okay John? I can tell something's bothering you...,"

Sighing, John logged out and closed the Internet window. He got up, stretching, and grabbed his clipboard.

"Anne, I'm fine...it's nothing,"

Placing her hands on both his shoulder, Anne looked up at her friend, "You know you can tell me anything right? Trouble with a girl, maybe? Or, um, a guy?"

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Something like that. It's just this old...friend...wants to meet up with me. We were really close before, but after I enlisted years ago he just...disappeared. I've been worried about him ever since...,"

"Oh, well that's nice. You should definitely meet up with him, you sound like you really care about him. I actually have some patient assignments for you,"

John accepted the assignments gratefully, hoping that the work would get his mind off Sherlock...

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**Hope everyone enjoyed! Please leave a review if you liked!**

**Next chapter may feature a reunion :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Super sorry for keeping you guys waiting! This chapter is a little bit longer than the others, so I hope you guys enjoy. Thanks for all the support on this story, and for all the favorites, follows, and especially reviews! Your support means the world to me :) 3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Facebook...**

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Lestrade coughed and sputtered as he walked into his flat, an cloud of smoke hitting him in the face. Great, Sherlock must be chain smoking again. Squinting through the darkness, he looked across the room to see a certain consulting detective sitting on his couch, knees curled up to his chest with a cigarette poised in his slim hands. The coffee table in front of him was littered with empty cartons and ashtrays full of cigarette butts.

"How many packs is that today?" he questioned, grimacing as he waved his hands in front of his face in an attempt to disperse the smoke.

Lestrade only got a grumble that sounded something like two in return. Sighing and crossing the room, he pulled open the curtains and threw open the window, hearing Sherlock moan and groan at the new influx of sunlight and fresh air. Stubbing out his cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray, Sherlock flopped on his side, curling up and throwing a blanket over himself to block out the sunlight.

He made his way over to the armchair on the other side of the room, settling down and looking over at the lump on his couch worriedly. It had been a few days since he'd messaged his most likely John candidate, and he hadn't heard anything back. Honestly, he'd really been counting on getting lucky with his first try, because Sherlock seemed to be getting worse and worse. Chain smoking was a newly resurrected habit of his, and it annoyed the hell out of Lestrade, making his flat smell like smoke and stale cigarettes, as well as worrying him with thoughts of nicotine poisoning. He didn't have the heart to force Sherlock to give up cigarettes, it seemed cruel to make him go through two separate withdrawal processes at once, and lately it seemed to be the only thing able to calm him down. The diet of nicotine, coffee, and tea certainly didn't help his weight, or his mood, for that matter. Perhaps if things started getting better, he could start Sherlock on nicotine patches, try to get him to kick the habit. But he couldn't even begin to think about that now until he found the man he was searching for,

Logging back onto his Facebook, Lestrade was surprised to see a single notification. He clicked the icon hopefully, and found himself smiling at the result. One message from John Watson. _Don't get your hopes up_, he though to himself. It could be nothing. He opened the message, hoping for some actually good news.

**Yeah, I think I'm the John Watson you're looking for. I haven't seen or heard from Sherlock in years, and would be interested in meeting up with him and finding out what happened. I'm free tomorrow around lunch time, message me back if that sounds good and we'll pick a time and place. Also, is there anything I should know about what's going on before I meet up with him? This just seems kind of sudden, and I was wondering if I should be worried.**

**Thanks for the help, **

**John Watson **

He was grinning like an idiot now. Maybe this meeting was all he needed to get Sherlock back to his old self, maybe even a better self. He typed back a quick reply, setting up a time and suggesting a place, and was about to send the message when he got second thoughts. Should he warn John about what Sherlock was dealing with right now? He didn't want to worry the man, and he thought it would be best if Sherlock explained what had happened, but he didn't want to shock John. He decided not to mention Sherlock's...current state. It would only bring up questions, ones that Lestrade frankly couldn't answer himself. Satisfied, Lestrade sent the message and closed his laptop.

"Hey Sherlock, get up," Lestrade practically shouted, smirk spreading across his face.

He saw Sherlock jump at the sudden noise, grumbling as he pulled himself up into a semi-passable sitting position, blanket slipping to pool around his lap. He rubbed at his eyes angrily, giving Lestrade a death glare that was considerably less intimidating considering Sherlock's rumpled clothes and untamed bed head, curls sticking up every which way.

"Sorry for waking you mate, but I've got some good news. I found him, John, I mean. Messaged him on Facebook, and he wants to meet up with you tomorrow for lunch."

Lestrade looked over expectantly, raising his eyebrows in surprise at the look on the younger man's face. He had his head in his hands, with his eyes screwed shut and the corners of his mouth tugged into a frown. Getting up, Lestrade walked over to Sherlock carefully, picking his way through the piles of books that littered the floor in front of the couch. He sank down next to Sherlock, and placed a heavy hand on the man's shoulder.

"I'm sure everything'll be fine...You shouldn't stress out about it, he didn't sound angry or anything, he sounded a bit worried actually," Lestrade assured, giving the detective an encouraging smile, "And anyways, maybe this'll make things a bit better. We can get things back to normal and you can get back to working because I know you miss it."

He felt the young man soften under his touch and let out a deep breath, pulling his head up and averting his eyes, choosing to stare at the floor. He could see how nervous Sherlock was, the way his hands trembled like they had during the beginnings of his detox, the way he compulsively ran his fingers through his too long hair. He pulled Sherlock in a loose hug, and was surprised as the younger man hugged him back. Lestrade hoped more than anything that things would turn out okay.

John stood with his back against the brick outer wall of the cafe he was supposed to meet Sherlock at. Was he really ready for this? After all this time? He checked his watch, groaning at the time. Sherlock must be here already. Quickly turning a corner, John peered in the window, scanning the room for signs of Sherlock. Couples on lunch dates, laughing co-workers, small children and their mothers grabbing a bite to eat after a day spent in the park. Finally, he noticed one, solitary young man, who stuck out in the crowd for all the wrong reasons. He was thin, almost scarily so, dressed in a dark suit with his narrow shoulders hunched over and his elbows resting on the table. Cheekbones casting shadows on his angular, stark white face. His pale, spidery hands were folded under his chin, and his eyes rimmed in dark circles were trained on the chair across from him. It was him. It was Sherlock. He knew from all the way across the room that it was him, and didn't even need the unruly dark mop of hair to confirm it. It was now or never. Steeling himself and taking a deep breath, John completely rounded the corner and walked in the cafe, lowering himself into the chair across from the ethereal young man, a mere shadow of the incredible person John Watson had known, or thought he'd known.

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**Hope you enjoyed! Looking forward to getting to the reunion between our duo and some more exploration into the...nature...of their previous relationship ;) **

**If you enjoyed, please leave a review, criticisms are welcomed and encouraged.**


	6. Chapter 6

**It's been what, like, a month?**

**So yeah...I totally forgot about how many people had followed and (hopefully) enjoy this story...**

**Sorry about that., won't let it happen again.**

**I promise I will try to update this story more and I hope you enjoy this new chapter :)**

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Sherlock was roused from his thoughts by the scraping of a chair directly across from him. He held his breath, a million fears and unhappy thoughts buzzing at the back of his mind. He tried to ignore them, tried to push them away. Pressing his fingertips against his lips, he let his eyes slip closed, taking several deep breaths before removing his hands and placing them at his sides. He tentatively looked up to meet John's eyes.

"Hello...you're looking...well," Sherlock began nervously, clearing his throat. It really was true though. He looked much the same as he had school, perhaps more tired, his face more lined. Better than he himself looked, that's for sure. He could scarcely imagine how hellish he looked right now.

"Hello to you too...I suppose," John started awkwardly, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat.

Sherlock fiddled with his hands and looked away, refusing to meet John's eye. He didn't want to be here, not anymore. After a while, he'd become almost excited about seeing John again. Maybe everything would be okay, maybe John wouldn't be too mad or anything. They'd push past everything that had happened and he could get better. But now? Facing John and having to own up to everything that happened and everything he has done, every promise he'd broken? It was too much. His thoughts buzzed a million miles a minute. He could feel his breathing quicken and his hands shake involuntarily. But he let his hands shake, and he let his breaths come in short, quiet gasps, but he refused to give into the burning sensation behind his eyes.

"Sherlock...are you alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock choked out, voice much choppier than intended, as his eyes flickered towards John.

"Seriously Sherlock. Is everything okay? You look like hell," John trailed off, giving the young man across from him another hard look.

"Really, I'm...fine. Just going through some...stuff...I guess it would be easier if I started from the beginning."

"Yeah, that'd be nice,"

"I, well...after you left...thing were...hard for me. Without you...things just started falling apart, I could feel it all crashing down, and I wanted to stay strong, I really did, but...I couldn't. I-I know that I promised you I would be okay and I-I tried, I really did, you need to know that. But, i-it just, I m-mean I...it just happened one night. I couldn't take it anymore, I-I just sn-snapped and starting using cocaine again...I was so just so worried about you, that you wouldn't come back, that you'd get shot or b-blown up or something and I would lose you, and I didn't know h-how to deal with those emotions, and, well. After...after I started again,

I just...I couldn't even face you anymore or anyone else for that matter. I'd b-broken my promise and I-I just thought you'd be so angry, so I just...stopped writing. And...without you there for me, and knowing that I couldn't face you anymore and that I might never be able to talk to you again...I just broke, self-destructed. I turned everyone away, shut them out, and I just...let go. I let myself drown in the drugs, and it got worse and worse u-until it was to the point where I was...homeless. I-I didn't care about anything, really. Nothing mattered to me anymore, I had nothing and...and nobody cared about me either. I-I was so alone, so fucking alone and I-I did so many horrible things, horrible horrible things and I-I just...I don't l-like to think about it anymore. S-so, um, yeah. That's what happened," Sherlock finally finished in a barely there, choked whisper, eyes still pointed downwards

John thought he could feel his heart shatter. It hurt him so much to see Sherlock like this, shaking and on the verge of tears, voice choppy and stuttering. It had been so long, forever, or so it seems, since John had seen his old friend like this, and he almost didn't know what to do or what to say. How could he assure Sherlock that he was here, that he wasn't mad (okay, maybe he was a little mad), and that he wasn't going anywhere? Blowing out a deep breath, he reached across the table, placing his own, warm hand atop Sherlock's shaking, pale one. Things were going to be okay, John was going to make sure of it. Sherlock was going to be better now that they had each other again, together they were stronger than they could ever hope to be apart. But seeing this broken shell of a man in front of him made him realize just how much work this was going to take. How long until he got the old Sherlock back? The one with the rich laugh and the twinkling eyes and the cocky smirk that graced his face when he deduced people. He missed him, and he always had.

Finally speaking up, John asked Sherlock in as soft and kind a voice possible, "And now? Why did you decide to do this after so long?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, rubbing his knuckles against his eyes in an attempt to force away the tears that were ever closer to surging forward, and began in a slightly more confident voice, "About a year ago, I, well, I overdosed again. I was still on the streets, and I'd thought that Mycroft had, well, given up on me by then. I thought things were over, I-I _wanted_ them to be over really, but I guess Mycroft had other plans. He and his men got me to a hospital in time. I-it was the first...upper hand...they'd had in years, they had me backed in a corner, I couldn't get out. So, Mycroft forced me into this rehab place, just to get me through the bout of detox. After all that was over...he got me a new flat, so I finally had a place to live after so long. I-I didn't last long though, and I turned back to using again pretty soon, but Mycroft didn't know or didn't care because this time...I guess I was managing it a little better, regimenting it a bit more. Eventually I met this D.I. with Scotland Yard, the one the messaged you, and he let me help out on cases, I've been doing so for almost a year now. But lately...he's been worried about me, I suppose, and was doing a drug's bust on my flat when he found some old photos of us together. H-he asked about you and I told him what happened and he offered to help me get through another round of detox without a facility so that maybe we could reconnect, so I just...took the opportunity. You know the rest."

John tried giving Sherlock and encouraging smile, but felt it slip from his face when he realized that Sherlock hadn't _really_ made eye contact with him the entire time.

"Sherlock. Please look at me mate."

He felt those cold, hauntingly pale eyes flicker up towards him and make steady eye contact. John flipped over the icy hand, gripping it tighter still and looked deeply into Sherlock's eyes, "I understand what happened Sherlock, and I promise you I'm not mad, not really. Maybe I'm a bit mad that you _thought _I'd be mad, that you put yourself through all this pain for nothing. But you need to understand more than anything that I am here for you Sherlock. I will _always_ be here for you when you need me, from now on. And if you want, I would more than happy, ecstatic even to be friends again, because I have missed this, I've missed you, more than you can possibly imagine, and I just want my old friend back," John replied, giving Sherlock a broad smile and feeling his own heart tug when his friend's lips playing into a tiny, almost unnoticeable smile. In those few, fleeting seconds, John could see his genius brighten, his eyes sparkle like they had in the past before being swallowed up again. And in those few seconds, John realized that everything just might be alright.

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**Hope you liked, and some feedback would be wonderful right about now!**

**If you'd like, please check out my other stories!**


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